


Game Over

by shinodabear



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Sandman
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 15:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinodabear/pseuds/shinodabear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes does not sleep. If that happened, Sherlock Holmes would be like the rest of us. And Sherlock Holmes is not like the rest of us.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Game Over

Sherlock Holmes does not sleep. This is not to say that he stays up all night, his mind whirring with a thousand and one thoughts, unable to shut off as his body weakens and his eyelids droop. If that happened, Sherlock Holmes would be like the rest of us. Sherlock Holmes is not like the rest of us. Sherlock Holmes does not sleep.

Ω 

Mycroft Holmes, too, does not sleep. He does not sleep because there is a problem with . . . well, there’s no need to bother with what. The matter stands that Mycroft Holmes has encountered a problem and he cannot leave the office until the problem is dealt with. So Mycroft Holmes does not sleep. He works. The night is still warm enough for him to leave his window open. The fresh air keeps him alert. Unfortunately, the open window also introduces the opportunity for birds to fly into his office. As it happens, there is a bird that does so. Mycroft is not entirely surprised.

Ω 

Detective Inspector Lestrade does not sleep. He had been asleep, but a phone call woke him and took him down an alleyway beside a Greek restaurant and lingerie shop. There had been a murder. The murder is so gruesome that dental records will be needed to identify the victim. This upsets the inspector. He will not get back to sleep tonight. DI Lestrade stares at what was once a man’s face and wonders what blunt object could’ve smashed the bone into so many pieces so easily.

Ω 

Jim Moriarty does not sleep. He can’t. There’s been a bit of trouble with his last job, a bit of trouble that’s not so easily dismissed. Jim Moriarty likes trouble, loves it even, if one were so inclined to say. Trouble makes things interesting. The thing about this kind of trouble, though, is that it’s unsettling. Exciting? Yes. Exhilarating, even. It sets his blood buzzing. But Jim Moriarty is also scared. He knows exactly who’s killed his men, and he knows how. The M.O. clearly belongs to only one man, an American, if the papers were anything to go by. But Moriarty does not go by the papers. He goes on knowledge. Jim Moriarty does not sleep because he knows that he is being hunted.

Ω 

John Watson is asleep. He is dreaming. In his dream, he is walking through a library. It is a fascinating library, John thinks as he is dreaming. The aisles appear to go on forever. There appears to be every kind of book conceivable, certainly every book John has ever read in his life – and many more that he has not. There are titles he recognizes and titles he does not. There are even titles that he is quite sure are made up, like _Paradise Lost Again_ and, next to it, _Whoops, There It Is_. The assortment is astounding: from fiction to non-fiction, and from multi-volume works to slim bindings of poems. There even a librarian. In his dream, John waves at the tall man. The man does not wave back.

Ω 

Sherlock frowns. Something is wrong: He feels tired.

Ω 

Without relinquishing his hold on his ballpoint pen, Mycroft looks up and regards his guest coolly. “How is a raven,” he asks, tilting his head, “like a writing desk?”

“How should I know, pal?” the raven croaks, “I’ve never been a writing desk.”

Mycroft has not correctly assumed the identity of the raven. For a moment, he is surprised, but he quickly collects himself. With a slight smile, he puts down his pen and folds his hands in front of him. “Forgive me. I was simply breaking the ice. I believe you have a message for me?”

“Mm.” The raven, if it is possible, shrugs. “Not so much a message as a summons, really.”

“And if I refuse?”

The raven swivels its head, ruffling its feathers. Its feet dance on the edge of the chair’s back.

“Of course,” Mycroft says, “Lead the way.”

Ω 

Lestrade had thought he’d heard the medical examiner coming down the alley, but that wasn’t the case. Instead, a man holding a lantern is approaching him. Lestrade immediately reaches for his badge. Lestrade tries to tell the man that he cannot approach, that this is a crime scene, but the man does not listen. Lestrade then thinks that the man has information about the murder. He asks as much, and the man replies, “What happened here isn’t a mystery at all. It isn’t even a secret. We’re simply here to deliver a message, inspector.”

“We?” Lestrade pauses, hand out to grasp the stranger’s elbow. He never gets to do so. Behind him, someone coughs. It sounds wet. The man’s eyes peer over Lestrade’s shoulder and, with a shaky glance, the inspector looks back. The corpse sits up, wiping its face with a handkerchief. It is more recognizable as human than it had been moments before.

“Wuh-wuh-why did you duh- _do_ that, Cain? I –uh- thought wuh-wuh-we were gonna guh-go see the inspector to _gether_. You knuh-know I hate it when you do those th-things to me.”

Lestrade feels his heart stutter.

“You’re not gonna hu-hurt the inspector, too, are you?” The corpse-who-was-no-longer-dead asks.

“No, you numbskull,” the man, Cain, replies harshly. “Of course I’m not going to hurt the inspector. You know what _he_ ’d do to us! Come on.” This last part is directed at Lestrade. “You’re coming with us.”

Before Lestrade can protest, the lantern extinguishes and all is dark.

Ω 

Moriarty is caught in his home. He should have known better than to go there, but he’d thought he was protected. This, of course, had been a mistake.

He is putting on the kettle when the lights in his flat flicker. (Fear. It pricks at the corners of his mind, but he pushes it away. He continues through the kitchen, walking from the tap to the stovetop. The lights cut out (His stomach drops.) and then come back on (He did not scream, but he did jump.)

Moriarty knows immediately. The killer grins at him, reaching to remove his shades. When the mouths that are his eyes address him by name, Moriarty stares into them. It is like staring into the pits of hell. (No. No that’s not right.) It’s like staring into a mirror, a dark mirror, the darkest mirror of his soul, of all of humanity. He sees every naughty, nasty, horrible thing he himself has done, and those deeds are nothing compared to what is coming next. (He wonders, briefly, how it came to end like this. Why it had to end like this, but he isn’t allowed to think for very long. The pain overrides his functioning.)

He feels himself being dragged across the room before he loses consciousness.

Ω 

“You are Doctor John Watson, are you not?” The librarian asks John.

“That’s me,” John replies cheerily, because this is a dream and John is very happy and polite in his dreams. (At least, now he is.) “Can I help you with something?”

It’s a funny thing to ask a librarian in his own library, but apparently it is the right thing to ask, for the librarian does need help. “I’ve lost a book.” He says. “I need your help. That is, you and your associate’s help. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe? It’s really quite important.”

“Sherlock would love to help you. He’s very bored. What is the book you’re looking for?”

The librarian smiles. “I’ll tell you when you wake.”

And John wakes.

Ω 

The raven squawks an address and Mycroft sighs. “Of course. Very well. I shall be there shortly.”

The raven insists they go together. Mycroft relents.

Ω 

The lantern is lit again and Lestrade recognizes the street, even though it is spinning. Suddenly, Lestrade feels very drowsy. The formerly deceased brother takes his elbow, supporting him as they walk into the building to their left. “Duh-don’t fall down, inspector. It’s just this way.”

Ω 

Moriarty comes to on a comfortable sofa. He opens his eyes, but of course he does not have any eyes to see with. He laughs, even though it sounds like a sob, and beside him his dark mirror, wearing his former eyes, laughs, too.

Ω 

“ _The Complete Sherlock Holmes,_ ” the librarian who is now standing his bedroom announces. “That is the book I’ve come to reclaim.”

John stares dumbly at him. He believes he’s still sleeping. He is actually very much awake. But he does not let himself know this. Instead, he walks out into the hall, down the stairs, and into the living room because that’s where the librarian told him to go.

Ω 

Sherlock is fighting to keep his eyes open when the door bursts open. The Corinthian (a new model, Sherlock notices) enters, dragging a body. Sherlock briefly closes his eyes, feeling violated. Moriarty is still alive. He can hear his unconscious groans. But his eyes are gone. His eyes are gone. Behind the Corinthian’s shades, Sherlock knows, they weep.

Sherlock rises from the sofa so that the Corinthian can lay Moriarty across it. The nightmare does not acknowledge Sherlock, he merely sits in the chair and crosses his legs. He waits. Eventually, Moriarty opens his eyes. Sherlock looks away. The Corinthian laughs.

Sherlock turns to the door in time to find a half-dazed Lestrade being led inside by Cain. It is safe to assume that Abel is nearby, possibly dead. Then again, there is a gathering on its way. Tea and sandwiches was always his forte. Mrs Hudson would be up shortly, then. Sherlock moves aside, to the corner of the room. He is unsure what to do. He had not been planning for this.

A minute later (only ten seconds late by Sherlock’s count), Abel and Mrs Hudson walk in and make for the kitchen. Mrs Hudson, dear ignorant Mrs Hudson, is chattering lively with the storyteller about Sherlock’s surprise party. They appear to get on well.

Not one of his uninvited guests speak to him. They barely even acknowledge him, which means that they are waiting for another, a more important other, a boss. Sherlock knows who that is, but he also knows that there are two others missing from his flat. Correction, one is missing, the other is upstairs asleep.

And that’s when Sherlock realizes his mistake. As if to mock him, a raven squawks. Sherlock cringes, knowing who the raven will drag in. (Will he know? Of course he’ll know. Will he say anything? It’ll be a disappointment.) He turns away, but Mycroft calls him back by name.

Sherlock turns back around, polite smile painted on. “Mycroft. I see you’ve made it here in one piece. Ravens can be such tedious company.”

“Really? Matthew was quite companionable.”

Sherlock has to bite his cheek. He fixes Mycroft a look filled with every ounce of hatred he’s ever felt toward his fat idiot of a brother, but the fat idiot doesn’t understand.

“Don’t be such a child, Sherlock!” Mycroft presses closer, lowering his voice and turning his back to their audience. In a forced whisper, he continues, “It’s over. I knew it the moment I yawned in my office, the same as you did when you were drowsy on the sofa.”

“What?” Sherlock barks. “Do you think that we’re going to go back and everything will be forgiven? That he’ll make you a vavasour of your own dominion?”

Mycroft’s reply is interrupted by the last person Sherlock ever wanted to see again. “Gentlemen! One set of bickering brothers is enough, I think,” Lucien the librarian says.

Sherlock cringes. Mycroft, along the rest of the room (save for Jim) turn to find Lucien standing with John. Mycroft respectfully bows out of this one as Lucien steps forward and John’s stunned face scans the room.

“I’m still dreaming,” John mumbles. Of course he would think so. He is seeing a man with mouths for eyes conversing with a raven. A man is bashing his brother’s skull in with a fire poker. He’s caught Moriarty’s body on the sofa, and Lestrade’s sleeping form in the chair at the desk. Mrs. Hudson, he may have noticed, is sleeping at the kitchen table. (It’s getting so difficult for Sherlock to keep hold.)

“You can’t expect me to go back,” Sherlock says to Lucien, but his eyes are glued to John. “I won’t go back! It’s too boring in there!”

221B Baker Street. It’s a good address. It rolls off the tongue. It is quite pleasant to live in, as well. It’s a much better home than his previous address. He’s treated so well here, too. He doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t give a damn what Mycroft wants; he never needed his brother in the first place.

“That’s not for you to decide, Sherlock Holmes,” the insufferable librarian says, his hand moving to John’s shoulder.

“Sherlock?” John asks. And Sherlock grimaces. “What’s going on? I’m not dreaming? Why is Moriarty on the sofa? Did you kill him? No. I don’t care. Who are these people? Why is there a raven in our home? Why is . . . why do they look familiar?”

Sherlock can do nothing more than stare at John, will him to understand and to fight back. Of course, John takes this for lack of an answer. Of course, John looks to Mycroft. And, of course, Mycroft is more than happy to oblige.

“Some decades ago, John," he says, "there was an incident. A very powerful entity was captured and his domain was left in a state of chaos. Amidst this chaos, those . . . dissatisfied serfs of the kingdom decided to revolt. They immigrated elsewhere, made lives for themselves, and everything was good – until their Lord came back, sending his most trusted men out to collect the missing. That is when many of the serfs hid. It appears as though the game, however, is finished.”

John wrinkles his brow. “I don’t understand.”

Sherlock shuts his eyes. He’s so tired. (But he can still open them. He can still open his eyes. All is not lost.)

Mycroft sighs. “Your life, John. Doctor John Watson. It’s a story. Your life was created by a man called Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, an author, and his books found their way into Lucien’s library. We are all characters in his books, some of us more sentient than others.” He smiles in a way that Sherlock supposes is to be comforting.

“What Mycroft is saying, John,” Sherlock interjects, “is that Lucien has finally broken through the barriers I set up. He’s come to take us back to the library, but he can’t! Lord Morpheus doesn’t care one bit about our lives. We’ve done no harm. We’ve done good! Solved so many murders! We’re harmless, really. Lord Morpheus wouldn’t care if just _one_ book went missing out in the waking world.”

John is still confused, Sherlock can see. It is frustrating. His hands reach up to his hair automatically, scratching at his scalp, pulling at locks to vent his frustration. “Don’t you see, John! These minions of the Dream King are here to imprison us!” He stops when he sees that recognition is not setting in. “You’re not supposed to know, John. Of course not. You were supposed to stay innocent of it all. I’m sorry. I should have been more vigilant. I should have monitored your sleep, kept watch on your dreams. They wormed their way through.” Sherlock curses, tracing back events to the points where he could have done differently.

“The Dreaming is changed, Sherlock. Lord Daniel, he’s much kinder.” Abel mutters from the floor with a jaw full of broken teeth.

“What? Fanny?” Sherlock rounds on him, angry that he'd been so lax. “Has father hired a coach, as well, to take us home, home, home! Pull the other one, Dickens!” Sherlock _hates_ losing.

Mycroft has caught the nuance, though. There is a new Prince of Stories.

“Sherlock,” John says again.

Behind him, Myrcroft yawns. “Don’t,” Sherlock tells him, but it’s too late. His brother has given up.

“Don’t you see?" Sherlock implores John. "He sent them all. All of his best men to fight us. He’s scared of us!”

“Actually,” the Corinthian’s left eye says, “we were just curious to see what you built. I can’t speak for everyone, but I always enjoyed your stories.”

“Especially the one where Moriarty wins,” his right eye joins in.

“I come back,” Sherlock corrects him, the words spilling out without much thought. “He doesn’t win. It was all a misunderstanding.”

It is devastating when Mycroft falls asleep, so devastating that the inhabitants of the Dreaming vanish with their charges. The flat is nearly empty. Only Lucien and John remain.

“Don’t,” Sherlock says.

“Sherlock?” John asks.

“It’s over, I’m afraid. I rarely lose books, Mr. Holmes, but when I do, I eventually get them back. Always.” With this, Lucien turns and walks away. He, too, vanishes.

“Tell me I’m dreaming.” John sounds angry. Sherlock cannot tell him that, so he does not. “Why can’t I understand what’s going on?”

Sherlock is silent. He is silent because he cannot tell John the reason why. He knows. He is simply incapable of admitting to it.

John made him human, as human as he could become, anyway. John was the part that reached out on the pages and brought Sherlock to life, the human part. Humans were never meant to understand the Dreaming. They were only meant to visit. And John was . . . John was the reason for this world in the first place. He was always married or moved out or plain old dumb and boring. Sherlock missed the best of their days together, when Holmes and Watson were a team, an unstoppable team. It wasn’t supposed to end. And this wasn't supposed to end. But it is. As he is staring back at John, he notices the stairs are going out. They fold onto themselves like pages in a book. The walls simply vanish, leaving nothing behind them. The kitchen crumbles. There is nothing but the living room, and them. John has not noticed this.

Sherlock tries one final time to find something to say, to somehow explain it all, but he fails.

“Good night, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock manages to say as John’s eyes flutter closed. He catches John’s body as it pitches forward in a deep slumber. The room fades. There is only a square meter of space left. “I so hate to lose,” Sherlock whispers to himself as he lays his head on John’s shoulder. He shuts his eyes reluctantly. It had been such a great game.

A

Merv collapses against the far shelf, his strength taken out of him after putting up that last shelf. He’s earned a fifteen-minute break. “Phew! I swear they get heavier an’ heavier each time. Whatever happened to those _Concise History_ books or something? Light reads? People gotta be thinkin’ up the big stuff. Picture books, I tell ya. Picture books are the future.” Merv pulls up his stool and sits. Across from him, a title catches his eye.

“Ah. Detective fiction! Was always a sucker for those.” He picks up the book and opens to the first chapter.


End file.
